O Caledonia

One Saturday afternoon in waning November light Nanny took Francis and Janet to the village hall; they were going to a party, a party for everyone, to celebrate Saint Andrew’s Day. Down the lane from the manse they went and into the street, past the draper’s shop, the grocer’s, the butcher’s, the greengrocer’s, all with their blinds down to prevent the sin of weekend covetousness. Then around the corner to fearful Institution Row, where the war-wounded lived in grim pebbledashed houses with big square windows. If you looked in, you could see them, sitting mournfully by small electric fires or limping on crutches about the room. One lay propped upon a great heap of pillows staring unforgivingly at those who could pass by. Janet used to duck down and run past his window in case he saw her; she was afraid of his hard angry face and the shapeless shrouded rest of him. It was worse in summer when they would sit outside in the mean front garden, a strip communal to all the houses, a length of gravel punctuated by wooden benches constructed from the timber of sunken enemy ships. Some were crazed from shell shock and nodded and muttered to themselves, others displayed the magenta stumps of amputated arms and legs. One sat in a wheelchair and the bright sea breeze whisked about his empty trouser legs. But this November afternoon their windows were dark; there was not one to be seen. Janet’s spirits rose; she looked forward to the party. Nanny and Vera had made carrot cakes and jellies and little pies, and they carried these in wide wicker baskets covered with white cloths. Janet saw herself, a good, kind little girl, bringing her provisions through cold and darkness to the needy, very like Little Red Riding Hood. She banished the thought of the wolf.

The village hall was an ugly desolate building, surrounded by high iron railings; it was the source of the disgusting wartime orange juice that children were forced to take from sticky urine-coloured bottles. But today all was changed. In they went to a glowing haven of Tilley lamps and magical candles. Tables of glamorous food stood all along one wall; chairs were arranged around the other three sides. There were bunches of balloons and there were jam tarts and Mr. McKechnie was playing his accordion and Mr. Wright the blacksmith accompanied him on the fiddle. The children played games, Ring-a-Ring-o’-Roses and Blind Man’s Buff, then In and Out the Bluebells and Who’s Afraid of Black Peter? Janet became wildly excited and hurtled back and forth. Her hair had been allowed loose from its usual pigtails and was crowned by a blue satin Glamour Girl bow, firmly attached to an elastic string; in her stiff blue organdie dress she felt almost like a princess. Even the sight of the war-wounded, gathered with their helpers in a cheerless group at the far end of the hall, did not check her glee. Other children joined her, skidding and shrieking, “Who’s Afraid of Black Peter?” “NOT I. NOT I,” they yelled, colliding, tumbling, fleeing the length of the room, too far, too near the grown-ups. Nannies and mothers sprang to their feet. “You’ll all sit down and have your tea.” A solemn silence came, suited to the serious ingestion of food.

Janet finished first. Watching Francis, with bulging eyes and bulging cheeks spooning quivering green jelly into his gap-toothed mouth, she felt the fatal tide of merriment rise again. Up onto her chair she leapt. “Francis!” she cried. “Tins of jam! Tins of jam! TINS, TINS, TINS of jam!” Francis choked; shards and globules of glancing emerald shot across the table. Janet ran. Beside herself, with flying skirts and hair, she careered down the hall; she was chanting her favourite nursery rhyme, “Hink, minx, the old witch winks, / The fat begins to fry; / There’s no one at home / But Jumping Joan, / Father, Mother and I.” As she neared the war-wounded she saw that they were laughing; they were laughing at her. She had made them laugh. Aglow with power, she postured in front of an amputated arm. “Hink, MINX,” she began again. “The old witch WINKS.” The man was mouthing at her; fearless, she stepped up to him and curtseyed deeply. “You’re a braw wee lassie,” he said. “What’s your name?” “Janet.” “That’s no name for you. I’ll call you Beth.” Beth. A beautiful name, a velvet name, brownish mauve.